


Dandelions shine up through the pavement

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Horny Teenagers, M/M, RPF, So here we are, Teen Romance, Teenage Artie and Paul are so precious, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex, and I want them to love each other for all eternity, apparently i wanted them go get on with it 10 years ago, but I'm aiming for angst with a happy ending, but oh well, but there will also be angst in the third chapter, enjoy, first chapter is a bit of pining and mainly kissing, here we come to the graphic part which warrants the rating of this fic, so no one despair just yet, that was when i wrote the first chapter and it is a bit fast paced, the second chapter will be pure smut, the second one is one big drawn-out telling of their first time ahem, warning y'all, while the first chapter felt a bit rushed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Queens, New York, summer 1958.  A time of friendship changing, innocence lost, confidence built and rebuilt, trust put to the test, memories made.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Nobody knew what we knew then

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is based on a line from the song ["Summer of '59"](https://youtu.be/hpnCoK6ixJA), a b-side by Paul McCartney. In fact, the whole fic was supposed to be called like that, because I thought it fit perfectly with the summer that Paul and Artie graduated from high school. And _then_ I found out that those two got into a special programme at school and graduated a whole year early! Talk about messing up my idea, lmao. But I still wanted to encorporate McCartney's song into the fic, so the fic title and the chapter titles are all lines from "Summer of '59"
> 
> The first chapter was written 10 years ago and I unearthed it the other day from my old laptop (that still runs on Vista, you can imagine). I did minimal editing, so this is my writing style from a decade ago, I guess.  
> I planned three chapters then, but never got around to writing the second and third chapter. I will try and finish it now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only truth I know is you...

It’s not so much the thought of not being classmates anymore, than the idea that he and Paul would drift apart from each other that scares Art. He’s sitting at his desk in his room, heaving a sigh, while going over the acceptance letters he already received from some universities in the country.

He already can’t stand being separated from Paul for too long _now_ , let alone for a longer time to come next semester, when they’re both off to different colleges, maybe even in different states. Art hasn’t made the final decision yet, but chances are that Paul is going to stay in Queens and Art is venturing further away, perhaps even outside New York. There’s a saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but what if it won’t be like that with them, and it will be a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ instead?

Art knows exactly why he’s so anxious about this. He _thinks_ about Paul. Lately he’s been thinking about Paul all the fucking time, actually. He knows that he shouldn’t, that this isn’t normal, but he can’t help it. These last few months he has stared at Paul’s back all the time during class, when he thought no one noticed. In fact, that’s where it all started, in class. One day Paul had shown up wearing a black turtleneck sweater, which was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. But Art had found his eyes glued to it, to how it clung to Paul’s body, how it emphasized Paul’s broad shoulders and how it showed off the swell of Paul’s biceps. Art didn’t know how or why, he just knew that the sight of Paul in that sweater had made him instantly and uncomfortably aroused and wow, that was new. Art may have had a soft spot for Paul ever since their friendship took off years ago, but these kinds of thoughts were rather…disturbing, to say the least. He was still thankful that the teacher hadn’t called him up to the blackboard that day to explain some mathematical equation when he had had to shift on his seat to hide the bulge in his pants.

Ever since then it has only gotten worse as time goes by. Art thinks about Paul in that way everywhere, on the road to school, while he is having dinner, when he is singing, alone or with Paul (the latter scenario having turned into an rather challenging ordeal), in the bath tub, and when he is lying in bed at night, imagining all sorts of possible scenarios in his head. It usually ends with him waking up with a boner, the last frayed edges of his dream about Paul dissolving in the air. It hasn’t been easy being Paul’s friend after that. Art has tried very hard to act all normal, hoping Paul hasn’t noticed anything different about his friend. Meanwhile, everyone was too busy trying to talk to them after school about the record they made and Paul was too preoccupied fighting off hordes of girls vying for his attention. Art doesn’t think anyone noticed him starting to look at Paul with heart eyes when every other girl also eyed Paul like that. Art is just stealthily blending in, really. The rest of the girls are trying to get Art to talk to them, when all Art wants to do is to pull Paul away from everyone and go live on an uninhabited island with his friend, where teenage girls are no longer a distracting factor. 

Art’s mother always says it’s his “teenage hormones acting up again” whenever he does or says something stupid, and at the age of almost seventeen that happens a lot. Art would very much love to blame this crush on his teenage hormones too, but it feels different. He can’t explain it, he doesn’t even want to _try_. All he knows is that he can’t tell anyone, because he’s scared to death about people finding out, and yet he wants to tell Paul, because Art is also sick and tired of the constant state of frustration and arousal he’s in nowadays. But no, he can’t tell Paul, he can never tell Paul, even though Paul is his best friend and they share nearly everything else with each other.

There’s a knock and then the door to his room opens. O _f course_ it’s Paul standing in the doorway, looking all gorgeous in his jeans and black t-shirt. Art has to stop himself from staring too much. “Hey Artie,” Paul announces, “your mom let me in. Wanna go out?” Art considers his options for a moment. Spending the day with Paul with his mind in the state it’s in could prove to be tiresome – and a bit daring. But on the other hand, summer break has just started and he’s already restless, doesn’t want to sit up alone in his room. It feels like he’s suffocating with strange thoughts that are surrounding him. “Yeah, okay, sure,” he answers, then adds: “Where?” Paul shrugs. “Dunno, just…you know, hanging out.” Art nods and gets up out of the desk chair. “Sure,” he repeats and follows Paul out the door.

They end up ‘hanging’ in a forgotten corner somewhere in the park near Art’s house, off and away from the main path. They’re both sitting under a tree, leaning against it, but there’s still enough sunlight filtering through the leaves and it warms their faces. If Art wasn’t sure about coming with Paul before, he is now, because these are the best days, he thinks, being lazy and doing nothing but enjoying each other’s company, an implied silence that’s not at all awkward. They’re used to this. There have been days when he and Paul can’t stop talking each other’s heads off, but on other days they don’t have to say one word and it still feels really comfortable and familiar being in each other’s presence.

Art feels Paul shift and change positions next to him. Paul lies down under the tree, his hands folded under his head, his legs crossed, his eyes closed to soak in the warmth of this perfect summer’s day in early July. Paul nearly hums from contentment. 

Art can’t help but sneak a glance at him. Paul’s face is gorgeous like this…with closed eyes and a small smile tugging at his lips like he doesn’t have a care in the world; it’s young, oddly childlike, peaceful and perfect and Art has to fight the urge to touch it.

And then Art suddenly _knows_. He just realizes it while he’s still taking in Paul’s features that are highlighted by the rays of the sun. Art is not just lusting after his best friend because he’s almost seventeen years old and he gets horny for pretty much all twenty-four hours of the day, but he’s thinks he might have genuine feelings for Paul, might be _in love_ with him. It’s not like this option wasn’t always somewhere in the back of his mind during the past months, maybe even for longer if he’s honest with himself, but this is the first time he actually consciously admits it to himself. It should probably feel like a life-altering epiphany, but somehow it doesn’t. Sure, it’s terrifying, and new, and daunting, and it makes his toes curl, but that’s pretty much how every day with Paul has been up until now. One day they didn’t know each other, and the very next day they were best friends and inseparable, just like that. And then, just as sudden, a day arrived when Art started to have sexual feelings about Paul. Art would see it as a natural progression in their friendship, but the trouble is that what he’s feeling now is not deemed natural by any standards. Whatever Paul is to him, even if they do fight now and again, Art already can’t remember how his life used to be before Paul Simon entered it. He bites his bottom lip. He kind of wants to scream, too.

Art is still processing all of this information when Paul wrinkles his nose and opens one eye to look at him. “You keep staring at me,” Paul says. “Why?” It sounds like a simple and innocent question, but Art tenses, petrified by fear that Paul has figured out why Art’s been acting all weird around him lately. He wants to say something and opens his mouth, but he’s got nothing that would even remotely explain his behaviour of the past months, at least nothing that he’s willing to share anyway, and he closes his mouth again. He feels nervous and sweaty all of a sudden. Paul chuckles. “You know what you just looked like?” Paul asks. Art shakes his head, aware of both of Paul’s eyes on him now. “Like a deer caught in the headlights. Or a frightened gazelle, or something.” Paul keeps giggling. “What’s up, Artie?”

Art figures he probably looks miserable, because Paul looks questioningly and a little worriedly up at him, but he just can’t say it. So he shakes his head again and says: “Nothing…just…nothing.” He sighs, lies down next to Paul and closes his own eyes, so he doesn’t have to see Paul’s inquiring gaze anymore. 

He hears rustling and feels Paul stirring next to him, but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. Then he hears the sharp and short ‘phewwww’ of Paul’s breath, and feels something tickling his face. That’s when he looks sideways, and Paul’s grinning at him, with the remnants of a dandelion still in his hands. He’s just blown the seeds all over Art’s face, and one even found its way into his mouth. Art scowls and spits the seed out on the grass, then turns back to Paul and says accusingly: “Why did you do that for?” He doesn’t think it sounded very angry, but Paul’s smile is faltering all the same, and Art immediately regrets saying it. He averts his gaze. Paul moves again and leans closer to Art. “What’s up with you, man?” he asks. “Why are you so grumpy all the time lately? Is something wrong?” When Art refuses to look at him, Paul is apparently at a loss for what’s going on, and Art knows it irks Paul when he’s being kept out of a loop. He leans even closer, half hanging over Art now, and grips both of Art’s shoulders with his hands. “Hey,” he tries again… “Artie…” He hesitates. Still no reaction from Art. Paul shakes Art’s shoulders a little. “Come on, you can tell me…”

Art is in pure agony. He is torn between running away as far and as quickly as he can, or giving in to the closeness of Paul who’s hovering lightly above him, looking at him quietly, expectantly. Art thinks that if he turns his head a little now, and lifts himself a bit off the ground, he could touch his lips to Paul’s. And it’s torturous and cruel and tormenting to be that close to something you want so badly but can never have. He continues to squeeze his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look directly at Paul and shakes his head again.

Paul tries to get him to open his eyes and in the process of moving his arm somewhat, that’s when it happens, that’s when Paul brushes Art’s groin with his elbow.

They both freeze. Art looks at Paul now, and sees Paul’s eyes widen and realization dawn on his face. Paul looks back at him, seemingly trying to seek an explanation in Art’s expression for what he just felt.

Art just wants to either die or for the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole. He knows he just messed everything up, and he expects Paul to run. But Paul doesn’t, he’s keeping perfectly still, still staring at Art with large, round hazel eyes, and Art can’t take it anymore. He digs his heels in the grass and struggles to scramble away from under Paul.

That’s when, apparently, Paul regains his ability to move, because he says “no”, shifts his body slightly and, still holding on to Art’s shoulders, pins them effectively to the ground. “No,” he says again, a little louder, “Art, don’t go.” Art is bewildered by Paul’s refusal to let him get up; he’s squirming beneath Paul and even though he’s taller than his friend, he can’t get away from under Paul because Paul uses his body weight to keep him down. He doesn’t know what is happening when he feels Paul’s hand on the fly of his trousers. He stills his motions in utter shock. “Paul, what are you doing, let me go!” comes out of his mouth. It causes him some anguish, but Paul just won’t release him. Instead Paul is trying to shush him into silence by putting his other hand, the hand that is not on Art’s pants, on Art’s mouth, causing Art’s words to sound like a muffled mumbling against Paul’s hand. “Shhhh,” Paul whispers hoarsely, ”just let me…I’ll take care of you.” Art is achingly hard, slightly panicking, and he’s still saying all kinds of things against Paul’s hand, when Paul manages to get the button of Art’s trousers open and the zipper down, and sneaks his hand in Art’s underwear. That’s when Art just finally shuts up. This is happening. From one second to the next, Art decides he wants this to happen. He can’t stop it. Paul knows that and lets his hand fall from Art’s mouth. 

Art stares at Paul with pupils blown, paralysed with desire, and what Paul is doing…it feels so, so good, and Art probably can’t say no anymore even if he wanted to. He arches his back a little and rubs his hips into Paul’s hand. Paul’s warm hand, with fingers used to playing guitar, fumbling in Art’s pants right now, and suddenly the weirdness of the whole situation hits Art. In a whisper that somehow sounds more like half a moan at some point, he makes Paul aware of the fact that they are out in the open, in public, that anyone could just come walking by. But Paul says that no one will, that they’re safe here and that they’re still fully clothed anyway, and he continues stroking Art; long, slow strokes along the length of Art’s erection. He flicks his finger out and thumbs the head, touches the circumcision scar that he probably has as well. Art understands then he never stood a chance. It sends Art right over the edge. He tenses, and then comes in hot spurts all over Paul’s hand, trembling and, not completely unexpected, on the verge of tears.

Afterwards, they both keep staring at each other. Art doesn’t hear any sounds but his own panting and the rustling of his heartbeat in his ears. Paul slowly withdraws his hand from Art’s underwear, and Art thinks this must definitely be the weirdest situation he’s ever been in when Paul sits up and wipes his hand on the grass. Art immediately buttons and zips his pants again lest any people come walking by, even though, like Paul predicted, they haven’t seen a living soul since they arrived here, despite being in New York in the middle of the day. He looks over at Paul again, and blushes a little when he notices the obvious bulge in Paul’s trousers. Paul catches him eyeing the spot, and grins. “You okay?” Paul asks Art when he gets a glimpse of Art’s flushed, pink cheeks. Art nods. “You…uh…do you want…?” Art stumbles over his words and gestures in the general direction of Paul’s crotch. “Later,” Paul says, and Art immediately feels a wave of disappointment wash over him. Even though he has no clue where to begin, being so inexperienced with sex and all, he still kind of wants to repay Paul for the favour, and now Paul just refused. He thought Paul had maybe felt the same way as him, with what he just did, and now he isn’t sure anymore about anything at all. Paul obviously notices Art’s insecurity, because he sets out to reassure him right away. “Artie, I want to, god, believe me, but it’s just that…we kind of need a bit more privacy indeed to…do stuff...that I wanted to try.”

Oh. _Oh_. Art feels his face flush even more now. He doesn’t know if he needs to be happy about Paul wanting to do _that_ with him too, or petrified because he’s so green about this, and he has never had feelings like that for another boy before. Paul is his best friend, which doesn’t make things any easier. It’s already confusing as it is, and what if they turn this whole thing into a chaotic mess, and they can’t fix it afterwards?

“Want _ed_?” he manages, because when his brain starts catching up with him again, finally, he realizes that that word was spoken in the past tense, implying Paul had been thinking about this for much longer than he let on, as well.

“Yeah, um…” Paul says, scratching his head.

Then Paul detects the frown on Art’s face. “You sure you’re okay? Do you want to go home? It’s getting late anyway.” Art just shrugs and bites the inside of his mouth. He’s still struggling to find the right words. “I just don’t understand….why?” he says. Paul’s face morphs into a disbelieving expression. “Huh,” he says, “Why? That’s kind of ironic, coming from someone who’s been staring at me for the past couple of months.” He smirks. Art’s eyes widen again, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Paul cuts him short. “Yes, don’t think I haven’t noticed your behaviour, and Art, I’ve wanted it too, for a while now. Sometimes I think I’ve wanted you from before I met you, but you know…I guess you don’t think or are allowed to think about stuff like that when you’re eleven. But now with you acting like that for a while…and I thought…it’s still okay, right?” Now it’s Paul who sounds a bit unsure. “I mean…are you…you still feel like that, right?” He looks up at Art with obvious hope in his eyes, and Art isn’t about to crush that hope when he feels his own heart race and his skin boil from what they just did. So he says “Yeah. Yeah, Paul, I do.” Of course he wants nothing else. Maybe he shouldn’t worry too much. Paul visibly relaxes when he hears Art’s answer. “Good,” he says, and smiles at Art, one of those genuine smiles that lights up his whole face, and Art feels a pang of affection in his stomach because he knows this smile is directed at him, _only_ at him. He can’t help but smile back.

Paul subtly slithers closer to him, and it’s such a typical Paul move, Art thinks, and he knows what’s going to happen next, so he isn’t too surprised when Paul takes his face between his two hands and Art nods even before Paul has asked anything. The last thing that Art sees is Paul searching Art’s eyes for any sign of refusal before they’re really bridging the last gap between them. Art closes his eyes, and he senses Paul closing in on him. At last he feels Paul’s lips on his in a very light, almost indiscernible caress before Paul opens his mouth slightly and deepens the kiss. As far as first kisses go, it’s a little awkward, Art thinks, but it’s certainly not bad either. He’s only kissed one girl before, and it doesn’t feel so much different than doing just that, kissing a girl. Paul’s mouth is certainly just as soft and pliant under his. Paul hasn’t had that much practice in kissing either, or at least Art doesn’t think so, yet he seems to know exactly just when and where to apply the right pressure with his tongue to make Art feel weak in the knees, and they’re not even standing. Paul is kind of licking into Art’s mouth now, and Art courageously touches his own tongue to Paul’s. The feeling of their tongues entwining is warm and wet and a little odd, and Art can’t pinpoint exactly what Paul tastes like, but he knows he’s already addicted to it and doesn’t want to taste anything else or kiss anyone else in his entire life. The kiss turns a little needy and insistent after that. Paul pulls Art closer, flush against his body, and Art hands are in Paul’s hair, caressing his scalp softly while both of their mouths are still moving frantically against each other. Art discerns a moan somewhere but he can’t for the life of him tell if it’s him or Paul who makes the sound. When they finally break apart, they’re breathing heavily and Paul’s forehead rests lazily against Art’s. They stay like that for a while longer, their eyes closed, just inhaling each other’s warm breaths.

After what seems like an eternity but can’t have been more than a minute, Paul finally nudges Art and says “Come on, let’s go home.” He has this naughty gleam in his eyes though, and Art has to swallow because he knows exactly what is going to happen, or rather what he wants to happen, even though he’s rather nervous about it as well. He’s strangely grateful that there’s not much talking going on when they walk home. Art feels a bizarre longing to hold hands with Paul, but he fights it. That would be too cheesy, and they’re in public. But the need to touch is overwhelming, so he bumps his shoulder to Paul’s, and is rewarded by another smile.

When they finally arrive back at the doorsteps of Art’s house, Art knows he doesn’t really have to ask, but he does it anyway. “Do you want to come up?” Paul nods avidly, and Art grins, suddenly deliriously and blissfully happy. “Okay, come on,” he says, grips Paul’s wrist and nearly drags him upstairs. And as they’re running up the stairs two steps at once, all Art can think about is how this is the day he’s going to get lucky. With Paul. Really lucky. It’s going to be a glorious evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is kind of written up and can be expected soon-ish. :)


	2. Look at the boys turn into men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I remember you, everything was new.  
> Talking in the dark, everything was true.)  
> \- Art Garfunkel, _In Cars_

When they’re inside Art’s room, Art makes sure to lock the door behind him. Paul looks at him and Art explains that his dad is out working, and his mom is god knows where. She was home when they left earlier that day, but Art thinks she’s probably at a friend’s now, drinking tea and gossiping or something.

“Brothers?” Paul asks.

“Out. Both at a friend’s.”

“Then why’d you lock the door?”

“You never know, right?”

Right. They both know that what is about to unfold up in Artie’s room better not be witnessed by curious brothers or unsuspecting parents, because that would be an absolute nightmare.

Art’s hands kind of start shaking, and he doesn’t know what to do with them, so he fiddles with a loose thread near the pocket of his jeans. Paul has suddenly grown quiet too, and they’re both staring at each other, silently calculating who should make the first move.

In the end, Paul does, because he’s Paul. He always makes the first move, as he has demonstrated earlier in the park. Art is glad Paul is more dauntless than he is, because if it was exclusively up to Art, they’d probably still be standing here days from now, looking at each other, too shy and too petrified to do anything about any budding romances with their best friend.

One moment Paul is standing in the middle of the room, and the next he’s crowding into Art’s space. This is how Art finds himself backed up against the door of his own bedroom, the key in the lock digging solidly in his lower back. Art has been thinking about scenarios with Paul. He has had some fantasies of how, if circumstances would allow, he and Paul would go about taking their friendship to the next level. Some of these featured rejection when Paul found out about Art’s infatuation with him. Art may have used them as some kind of defence mechanism, in preparation for the worst. If his brain had already practiced the way it would feel when his heart would break in a thousand little pieces, it wouldn’t feel so horrible in real life anymore. Though sometimes, in other settings, Paul wouldn’t refuse Art’s affections. It wouldn’t be unrequited, and the story would have a fairy tale ending in which Paul would also confess his undying love for his friend.

But in none of the fabricated pictures in Art’s mind, Paul did what he has done in the park. In none of them Paul stands in his room like this; not one of them featured Paul inching closer until he’s right in front of Art, looking up at him with apparent adoration written all over his face, with eyes shining like a thousand fireflies have all lit up at once.

“Artie,” Paul sighs. “Can I…can I kiss you again?”

Who is Art to refuse, really? What does one do when all the things you’ve been dreaming about for months, possibly for longer, are suddenly coming true? Can it all really just be _that_ easy?

Art nods, his lower lip already lowered and half trembling in anticipation. Paul steps closer, his arms closing around Art’s waist tightly. His lips find their way to Art’s again as if it’s a road they’ve travelled daily since forever. Apparently it _is_ that easy. Paul’s tongue licks the back of Art’s upper lip, and it tickles; not enough for Art to pull back, but goosebumps are erupting on his forearms. He retaliates by gently nipping on the soft flesh of Paul’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Butterflies are going rampant in Art’s stomach when Paul stands on his tiptoes and kisses Art on the forehead before moving down to this cheeks, his mouth, and then his neck. Art moves his head to give Paul better access. Paul spends a good while licking the sensitive skin that enfolds Art’s carotid artery, pulsing wildly and incredibly _alive_ under the wet swipe of the tip of Paul’s tongue.

With a peck on Art’s lips, Paul pulls back. “Jesus, Artie,” he says, his voice a little cracked, “I’ve been wanting to do this since forever.”

Art is a bit dizzy, delirious from unbridled joy. The fantasies he entertained are nothing compared to the real thing that is Paul Simon in his arms right now. “What, give me a hickey?” he asks, while he rubs the skin on his neck that tingles from previous contact with Paul’s mouth.

Paul’s face lights up. “That too,” he chuckles, before he gestures between their chests. “But I meant _this_ , in general. I’ve been…going crazy, Artie. Thinking about you, hoping you’d feel the same. It was agony not knowing.”

“But,” Art sputters, “you said you had _seen_ me looking at you. How could you not know? I tried to hide it but I guess I did a very bad job of it.”

“I wasn’t sure. I could never be entirely sure. I mean, what are the chances? And it’s not the sort of thing you thoughtlessly venture into when the outcome is not guaranteed, huh?” Paul admits. “I didn’t want to lose you. I _couldn’t_ lose you.”

Art wants to cry, because they’ve been so stupidly falling for each other, both of them not being able to act on anything sooner because of insecurity about reciprocity even more than about society’s contempt for same-sex love. They’re still so young, but Art is so sure that this is _it._ This feeling is what it’s all about. It started with deep, forbidden music they were both longing for, and turned into a summer of two boys and their even more illicit yearnings. 

“Well,” Art says, thoughtfully. “You’re not losing me. I want this as badly as you do. I want…” Art is trying to come up with the right words that convey his feelings, but finds that his vocabulary is entirely lacking. So he can only let his lips and his hands do more soundless talking, hoping he gets his meaning across like that. He bends his head to capture Paul’s mouth in another searing kiss, holding Paul’s head between the palms of his hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles across Paul’s cheeks, his fingernails scratching Paul’s scalp. Paul moans in his mouth, and Art may be inexperienced, but he’s a quick learner, and he’s guessing he must be doing something right for Paul to make these kinds of noises. Art’s face grows hot, and even though Paul made him come earlier, he’s already hard again, indecently so.

“Paul,” he whines, tearing his mouth away from Paul’s, intoxicated by the feeling of holding his entire world in his hands. “Please. Just…”

“Yeah…fuck, okay,” Paul replies, just as inarticulately as Art feels, Paul’s words garbled by the rustling of their clothes and the loudness of their breaths, as Paul starts tugging on Art’s arms, pulling Art away from the door and in the direction of the bed.

Art is at the same time incredibly scared and excited at the prospect of _this._ He’s not sure if it’s a tug of war between the two emotions without a clear winner, or if one is getting the upper hand. Paul walks backwards until his legs can go no further, and he sits down on Art’s bed. Paul has sat on that bed countless of times before, but never like this. Never with lustful, hooded eyes, never with this much determination to wreck Art completely and then assemble the broken pieces only to start over again. Art moves to stand between Paul’s legs in front of the bed, the hard frame digging in his shins. Paul’s arms come up, his hands gripping both sides of Art’s waist, holding Art steady while he moves back on the bed and draws Art with him. Art holds his upper body up by planting his hands firmly on the mattress, one on each side of Paul’s face. His eyes never leave Paul’s, neither of them wanting to be the first to break eye contact.

But Paul is too impatient, too busy moving under Art to keep up the longing stares, and Paul squeezes his eyes shut, pulling Art’s head closer to his, his fingers completely hidden from view in all the layers of Art’s hair. He’s kissing Art again, and what little strength Art had left in his arms escapes, as if it’s being sucked out of him through his mouth by Paul’s relentless movements with his lips and tongue. Paul lets out a ‘hmph’ of breath as Art’s chest forcefully falls on his, Art’s arms completely useless but for the way his fingers clamp into the pillow below Paul’s head.

As much as Art would like to perpetuate the creation of incredible and essential friction by rotating his hips on top of Paul’s, their lower bodies fused together like two pages in an old notebook, he does roll to his side, trapped between the wall and Paul’s body. Art somehow regains the ability to use his limbs, and he lies tangled with Paul, his free hand starting to journey across Paul’s back and one of his legs between Paul’s, moving up dangerously close to Paul’s crotch. Paul, his chin perched on Art’s shoulder, his breath tickling warmly in Art’s ear, is also doing his own roaming, and Paul’s fingers fumble with the bottom hem of Art’s t-shirt, pulling it slightly upward. He splays his hand on the small of Art’s back, slowly moving even further down, until Paul manages to hook his thumb under Art’s belt. The touch is warm, but Art finds himself shivering nonetheless; his senses heightened by Paul’s mix of extraordinary tenderness and brazenness, and his own vulnerability. Art has never been this close to anyone, both in the physical and the emotional sense, except maybe his mom, but anyone could see how this is different. He has kissed exactly one girl before, but now that he thinks back on it, it was more a case of curiosity about how it would feel to kiss someone on the lips than real desire for his co-instigator of that experiment. But now…

To have Paul kissing him is already infinitely better than anything Art has ever experienced, and now there’s this electric current running through their kisses and movements. Art may be green but he’s no fool. He knows what’s about to transpire. Paul’s hand is venturing even lower now and Art gets a slight shock when he realizes that Paul seems to be knowing exactly what to do.

“Paul,” Art whispers. “I’m nervous,” he admits, his heart aflutter.

Paul stops feeling up Art’s butt cheek and moves his head marginally back, looking at Art’s face. “Me too. Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” Art hurries to say. “It’s just that I haven’t…I’ve never…”

“Me neither.”

“You haven’t?”

Paul smiles. “Nope, I was waiting.”

“For what?” Art asks.

“For you to catch on, dumbass. It was always you.”

“Oh.” Art can’t stop the rosy tinge worming its way from his neck to his cheeks, even if he wanted to.

“But rest assured, I know the gist of what umm…of what I want to do. But without something to get um…smoother access…” Paul stammers, his face now also starting to redden.

“Oh,” Art repeats. “Maybe this can help.” Art awkwardly turns and sticks one of his arms between the mattress and the wall, feels around for what he needs on the floor under his bed, and pulls out a transparent glass jar half filled with coconut oil, still slightly solidified despite the balmy temperature outside.

Paul barks out a laugh as he takes the jar from Art’s hands and turns it in his hands, looking at the round brand sticker that is partly tainted with oily residue. “Oh Artie,” he snickers. “Are you serious? Leave it to you to hide a pot of coconut oil under your bed.”

“Hey,” Art chides, “It’s come in handy before.”

“Oh, I’m sure it did.” Paul is still snorting and Art can’t help breaking out in a wide smile as well. That is, until Paul unscrews the cap and looks at Art with obvious purpose, and Art feels another jolt of heat travelling from his stomach to his groin in a matter of microseconds.

Paul sticks his nose over the top of the jar and sniffs, a waft of faint but sweet coconut scent reaching Art’s nostrils as well. “Am I going to find your hair down there smelling like coconuts?” Paul asks Art, grinning. But his smile quickly falters when Art, in a flash of uncharacteristic forwardness, replies “Why don’t you find out?”

“Shit. Yeah,” Paul whispers, and his upper body twists around to put the jar down on the bedside table first, wanting both of his hands free for now. Paul rolls over from where he was caught under Art’s legs and sits up on his knees, pulling his own t-shirt over his head in the process. He then hooks both of his hands under Art’s t-shirt, pulling it up and rubbing his hands over Art’s stomach, up to his chest. It’s nothing Paul hasn’t seen before, but the added sexual implications now make Art feel scrutinized, and he wants nothing more than to shy away from Paul’s gaze, yet he is mesmerized by Paul’s wandering digits. Paul’s hands slide down again, Art’s t-shirt still rucked up just a little above his nipples, and then Paul brushes the front of Art’s pants, lightly squeezing Art’s dick through the thick layer of cloth, but it’s enough for Art’s breath to hitch and for Paul’s eyes to grow a shade darker with desire. Art is watching how Paul diligently works on the button of his trousers, popping it open and then dragging the zipper down with trembling fingers. By then, Art is still surveying the scene with anticipation bordering on trepidation. He is feeling awfully defenceless in this position, and he thinks he’s not shameless enough to watch Paul’s face as he undresses Art to his underwear, let alone when that that last piece of undergarment will undoubtedly have to go.

Art puts his hand on Paul’s wrist, tugging him forward, and Paul willingly goes, wordlessly understanding the predicament Art is in. This time it’s Paul hovering above Art, nuzzling the side of Art’s face with his nose, and Art takes advantage of Paul’s temporary occupation to tug his own pants down, including his boxers. His cock is now exposed to the open air, lying thick and hot on his pubic bone.

“Artie,” Paul whispers next to his ear, “I’m going to have to look at it eventually if we’re doing this.” There is no trace of ridicule in Paul’s voice, just a statement of the obvious and a small hint of craving that leaves Art a little breathless.

“I know. God, and I want you to. It’s just…a lot.” He turns his head to look at Paul, who bends his arm and lies down next to him, Paul’s head ending up on his shoulder but his eyes raised to look back at Art. “Can I touch you again?” Paul asks, and Art nods.

Paul’s sneaks his hand out cautiously and wraps it around the head of Art’s cock, causing a sharp intake of breath to escape Art’s lips. Paul’s eyes inadvertently leave Art’s face and land on the warm flesh between his fingers. “Artie, you’re so beautiful, damn,” he whispers, and Art’s face grows even hotter. When Paul starts tugging, with full access this time, instead of having to grope blindly inside Art’s pants, it feels so good, so enjoyable, that Art decides he’s going to have to get over his embarrassment, closes his eyes and lets the pleasure overtake him.

Paul moves, his head leaves Art’s shoulder but Art doesn’t think much of it, until he feels the ghost of Paul’s warm breath curling around the head of his dick. His eyes fly open, in time to see Paul flick out his tongue and take a careful lick before folding his mouth over Art’s cock and swallowing it down almost completely, one of his hands fondling Art’s balls in the process. And god, Art doesn’t quite know how to compute this, how to function normally ever again after this, how to ever want anything else in his entire life again but this. “Oh god,” he manages, throwing his head back on the pillow, and his breathing erupts into an avalanche of moans and blasts of air forcefully pushed out of his lungs; he is desperately trying to keep any sense of decency but unable to, curses tumbling down from his lips.

Paul’s mouth is so warm, so… _skilled_ , that Art doesn’t think he will last another two minutes. But he doesn’t want to spill just yet, he wants Paul…he wants to feel _Paul_ around him, with him, in him.

“Paul, wait,” he warns. He grabs the jar from where Paul put it down on the nightstand and slides it in Paul’s direction. Paul looks up from what he’s doing, his mouth leaving Art’s member with a soft pop. It seems to take a minute for him to process, but he catches on, his eyes widening and his eyebrows raising. “Are you sure?” he asks Art, and despite his nervousness, Art has never been more certain of anything.

For the second time, Paul unscrews the cover of the jar but he does it apprehensively, his shaky fingers betraying how he’s just as jittery as Art is. He scoops out a bit of the solid paste; it melts under the warmth of his body temperature. He rubs a bit of the oil under Art’s scrotum and dips his fingers back into the jar. Art squeezes his eyes shut, waiting, nevertheless raising his hips a bit, opening his legs further. “Artie,” he hears Paul say. “Tell me if it hurts, okay?” 

It’s the strangest feeling, a foreign object inserted in such an intimate place. Art’s muscles react instinctively, denying entrance, and his legs tense, his heels digging in the mattress, but Paul is insistent, carefully rubbing, probing, making headway little by little, the first phalange going past the ring of tightness. Art feels it burn, but Paul is so careful, so delicately considerate, that it becomes bearable, even pleasurable after only a short while.

Soon after Paul’s first finger has breached the resistance, a second one joins, moving in and out of him, and Art can’t tell if he starts squirming below Paul’s hands from pain or pleasure. When Art opens his eyes between a sequence of gasps escaping his airways, Paul’s gaze flicks from what he’s doing with his hands to Art’s face and back, his eyebrows pinched together in supreme concentration. “Are you okay? Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?” Paul asks, starting to pull back his hand.

“Don’t stop,” Art whimpers, “just…please, Paul, do it already. I want…you to… I need you.” Art’s words sound feverish, and maybe his temperature really did raise in the course of the past minutes, because small droplets of sweat are starting to form above his lip and near his hairline. They prickle, but Art is too concentrated on what’s going on down there to wipe them off. “Please, Paul,” he moans again.

“God, are you sure it’s okay? I just don’t want to hurt you,” Paul says, but Art thinks now is not the time for this show of restraint. They’ve come this far and he needs to feel Paul close or he’ll die. Paul slowly removes his fingers from where they were buried in Art and moves to get off the bed, wiping his hand on a tissue. He is still wearing his trousers, Paul’s aroused cock tenting their front. Art wraps his hand around his own cock, still heavy upon his lower stomach, and tugs two, three times, while Paul slides his trousers down to his ankles and loops his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, pulling those down too.

Paul’s dick stands very, very erect, need and desire written all over Paul’s face, but Art balks a little, his earlier resolve slightly tempered by the sight of a completely naked Paul in front of him. While Art appreciates the view, Paul’s dick is only a tad smaller than his own, and maybe Art hasn’t thought this through. How is it ever going to fit in _there_?

“Artie, I’ll be careful, okay?” Paul says, as he’s moving back on the bed, trailing closer to his prior spot between Art’s legs. He takes Art’s hand and squeezes it, and Art is grateful for the momentary distraction. Paul’s fingers go back to the coconut oil jar, and he rubs the milky white, almost translucent substance along his shaft, taking extra care to coat the head. Art is bracing himself as he feels Paul’s knees slide under the back of his thighs and Paul’s hands grabbing him on both sides of his ass, pulling him closer and higher in order to gain better entrance. “Okay…okay…” Paul mumbles, as he’s looking for a pillow to shove under Art’s backside. After that, he’s feeling around for Art’s entrance with one hand, his cock engulfed by his other hand. “Artie…”

The tip of Paul’s cock pushes in, and Art’s first thought is one of ‘is this it?’ but then comes the first real push and stretch, his muscles tearing to accommodate Paul’s girth, and he nearly cries out in shock. Paul falls forward, his hands spread out on top of Art’s abdomen, panting. Art is also trying to control his breathing, his chest heaving nevertheless, trying not to lose his cool completely, as his friend is pushing in a bit deeper, in very small increments, until he can go no further.

“Paul…” Art groans. “Hold on just one sec,” and Paul obeys instantaneously, stilling his movements completely while he searches Art’s face for a sign, for anything indicating whether he should abort his mission or whether it’s a green light signalling for him to continue. Art looks at Paul, balancing above him, a half-crazed expression on his face, and the realization from earlier hits Art again. He is in love with Paul, and Paul likes him back and now they’re doing this. Art has never felt more complete than in this instant and this is when his body starts to agree with his mind; a curious thing happens as his body gets used to the intrusion, and the flashes of stinging and pricking morph into spikes of heat that travel from his belly to his groin.

“You can move now,” he directs Paul, in a half-whisper, and Paul hesitates for a split second before he pulls back slightly, his mouth ajar, and then pushes in again. And repeats, each thrust gaining more speed and momentum. Art bites his lips, his feet dangling weirdly in the air with each jolt in his body as Paul’s crotch hits Art’s butt repeatedly. But there’s no more time for inhibition now. Art takes it all, contracting his abs to raise his upper body and claim Paul’s mouth again with his own, muttering “yes, Paul, fuck” between hot, open-mouthed kisses, their tongues pressed together tightly while trying to noisily inhale enough oxygen through their nostrils to keep up the pace.

Paul pulls back, sitting upright, one of his hands wrapping around Art’s dick, the other still on Art’s belly for support, and he starts tugging in rhythm with his own motions. The two simultaneous sensations render Art close to climaxing quickly. He throws a few more curse words and a warning in the air before he spills hotly on his stomach, Paul’s hand coaxing him through his orgasm. He’s sweaty and exhausted, his heart racing, but it’s easily just as good, if not better than when he came earlier in the park. It’s a little strange though, his muscles involuntarily convulsing around a body part that’s not usually there to begin with. Paul must have felt the tightening, because his motions grow a bit more frantic, though Art observes he is still trying to keep control. Paul is so beautiful like this, the colour on his cheeks, the sweat gleaming on his forehead and chest, the taut pull of his skin across his clavicles, a strand of hair pulled loose from the curl that Paul fastened in his fringe with hair gel, the little sighs leaking from his lips. Art wants to keep everything forever, memorizes the visual, turns it into a graph in his mind, an X-axis of Paul and a Y-axis of himself. He will add the details later, when he’s had a chance to review everything in solitude.

At last Paul is losing restraint, his hands gripping Art’s waist, his nails digging into the flesh of Art’s hips, nose scrunched and eyes closed, a vaguely raw and painful expression on his face. Paul’s thrusts turn fast, sloppy, haltingly, and then he starts swearing as he tenses, his head tilted back. Art keeps still; he can feel the exact moment Paul climaxes, the ripples of Paul’s pulsing dick reverberating from where it is deeply buried. Paul opens his eyes to look at Art, seemingly too drained to speak, but Art beams up at him, seeks to grab Paul’s hand, clutching it firmly. He is yet undecided about either starting to laugh hysterically or bursting out into tears. He’s just _happy_.

“Slowly,” Art warns as Paul starts pulling out, the friction again creating more stinging than Art would like. He hisses as Paul’s dick pops out of him, and Paul immediately stands up and goes in search of more paper tissues, throws some on Art’s stomach and wipes himself with one. “Hope we didn’t make too much of a mess,” Paul chuckles, and that’s the first time since they got upstairs Art remembers he has a mother who washes his sheets, but when he checks, he is relieved not to find any wet spot under his body, nor on the pillow that he removes from under his lower back. “We’re good,” he says, looking at Paul who is standing next to his bed, looking a bit forlorn. “Come here,” Art beckons, opening his arms, and Paul climbs over him to fall down next to him, immediately returning the hug, his head tucked in Art’s neck and his arm bridging Art’s waist. Art uses his finger to stroke Paul’s arm, sighing in deep contentment.

“Artie, that was just so…so amazing,” Paul murmurs in the folds of Art’s neck, half-giggling, and before long Art can’t stop laughing either. “Well,” Art says eventually. “I need to ‘just hang’ with you more often if this is what it’s going to amount to.”

The corners of Paul’s eyes wrinkle. “Shut up, it’s not like I was planning this today.” Art moves his head sideways and plants a kiss on top of Paul’s head. “No one can know, though,” Art says, a bit superfluously, because Paul is already nodding. “Yeah I know,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. “We’ll have to make sure not to get caught.”

Just as Paul raises his head to kiss Art again, they both tense as downstairs, someone has just opened the front door. Art bolts upright, Paul is already reaching for his t-shirt, pulling it over his head in super speed, Art jumps up and down to pull on his pants, Paul hides the jar from view as he’s zipping up his fly, Art remembers the key in the lock and turns it, right before Art’s mom calls “Arthur, honey, are you home?”

“Yeah, mom, I’m upstairs”, Art yells back, expecting the footsteps on the stairs a few seconds before they start sounding.

Art almost lands face first into his desk chair, Paul unceremoniously flung on Art’s bed, busy pretending to read a comic book. Rose’s head appears in the doorway. “Oh, I didn’t know you were still here, Paul,” she says, smiling. “Have you boys eaten?” Paul subtly tries to flatten a bit of his hair, to no avail.

Art shakes his head. “Do you want to stay over for dinner, Paul?” she addresses her son’s friend again. “That would be lovely, thanks, Mrs. Garfunkel,” Paul replies. “I’ll uh…I’ll call my mom to let her know.”

“Had a fun day at the park?” Rose inquires, looking over her son’s slightly dishevelled features. “Uh huh,” says Art. “Surprisingly, _really_ fun.” He smiles innocently up at his mother. Art can’t look at Paul for fear of a bout of giggles.

“That’s nice. Jules and Jerry should be home soon. I’ll call you two down for dinner when it’s ready, okay?” Right before she closes the door, she adds: “Arthur, have you been buying those coconut macaroons again?” Art starts blushing while Paul’s eyes widen. “You shouldn’t stuff yourself, leave some room for dinner, okay?”

“Yes, mom,” Art says, and when the door finally closes and they hear her footsteps going down the stairs, Paul and Art laugh so hard, Art’s eyes are still red-rimmed an hour later from tears of laughter spilling out.

\---

The next two weeks are more of the same. They spend every waking moment in each other’s company. Paul and Art quickly learn how to sneak around, and they do it well. The fact that they were rarely seen without each other before this particular change in their friendship, helps. Art accompanies Paul to the grocery store, them giggling together in the oil section before they start arguing over whether Paul will also take coconut oil home or a small bottle of olive oil. “At least we can blame it on macaroons if we spill, Paul,” Art hisses. “It’s not like you have a habit of eating olives out of a jar in your bed. That’ll convince who, exactly?” Paul eventually agrees.

They spend a lot of time up in each other’s rooms, practising their so-called singing, but there are a lot of pauses between the tunes they are humming, too busy _tasting_ each other’s mouths instead of performing. Art learns a whole new harmony to Paul’s music, and figures his newest practice on how to train the muscles in his cheeks and tongue will come in handy for their singing as well. Paul tries to write a song using a lot of ‘A’ and ‘G’ chords, because he’s taken a fancy to those letters. There are a lot of stolen kisses behind the biggest tree in the park, and when they go to the movie theatre, they always take the back row so they can hold hands between their seats without anyone noticing.

There is a particularly lucky coincidence when Paul’s father is out, and Paul’s mom takes Eddie to the dentist and out shopping for some new clothes, which gives them at least an hour, maybe two, for a repeat performance of what happened in Art’s bedroom the first time around. This time, Paul asks Art to penetrate him, and Art nearly dies on the spot when Paul gets on all fours and sticks his ass in the air for Art to play with. It’s a lovely ass. Art puts it on his quickly filling list of Paul Simon’s greatest hits.

One night, Art tells Paul he has decided to go to the same college Paul is going to attend, because he’ll be damned if he’s on the other side of the country, pining for his friend. Paul tells him no, you can’t do that Artie, are you sure? Are you really, really sure? And Art wouldn’t have it any other way. That same night, Paul says ‘I love you’ first, and Art cries when he crushes Paul to his chest and whispers it back in Paul’s ear. He is having the summer of his life. With the love of his life.

They still bicker as usual, and no one suspects a thing. Only now when they say “let’s drop it,” they fully intend to have the other’s pants drop to their ankles, too.

About two weeks after their first kiss, Art finds himself perched on Paul’s bed. Paul is on the desk chair in front of him, playing the chords to a song on guitar, a tune that Sid told them to listen to, as it might be a good b-side to another song Paul is working on for the next Tom and Jerry hit. “That’s us!” Paul tells him about the song, ‘Two Teenagers’. When Paul hums the melody, Art joins in, their voices harmonising a while, mingling together in perfect synchrony. Then Paul puts his guitar to the side, climbs on Art’s lap and kisses him sweetly, long sweeps of his tongue alternated with short pecks. Art plays with the hair in the nape of Paul’s neck, his other hand rubbing the soft flesh on Paul’s back through his t-shirt. Sadly they can’t go any further this evening, as Paul’s parents are both downstairs watching television, and Eddie is in the room just next door. He has a tendency to show up unannounced if he’s getting bored, even if Paul has already instilled a sense of ‘you have to knock first if you want to come in my room, do you hear?’ into his younger brother. Paul and Art have already managed to avoid some very awkward explanations that way, buying just a pinch of time, pulling apart quickly right after the first knock sounded.

“I’m just going to get a glass of water,” Paul announces when he parts with Art’s face this time. “Do you want some as well?”

Art nods. His lips are constantly chapped these days from all the kissing, but he couldn’t care less.

“Be right back,” Paul tells Art before he disappears through the door and bounces down the stairs.

Art jumps down from the bed, and rummages through the records that Paul keeps in a cardboard box on a shelf next to the desk. His eyes skim over the titles. He needs something sweet, something romantic, something sexy. Something to woo Paul with. Something to… His gaze falls on a title he hasn’t seen before.

Paul comes back on the stairs. Art’s heart shatters.

“Listen, I was thinking…,” Paul pushes the door open with his elbow, carrying two glasses of water. He stops in his tracks when he sees the look on Art’s face. “Wha--?”

“Paul,” Art says, his voice hoarse, the black disc in his trembling hand. “Who is True Taylor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the aaaaaaangst.


	3. And it's all in the name of good taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I recall love when it died  
> How we both parted, how we both cried  
> People still ask why we two are apart  
> People don't know what i wish in my heart  
> Just you and I  
> Sharing our own private world.  
> (Artie Garr - [Private World](https://youtu.be/sWb82LB7ko8))

Art is an exact sciences kind of guy. He likes maths. He likes the predictability of numbers. He is in awe about how, whatever mathematical calculation you perform on numbers, there always is only one right answer. One plus one is two, period. Perhaps someone could accuse Art of seeing the world in black and white. That is how he has always seen the world and everyone in it. Someone is either his friend or is not. He either loves a person or he does not. There is no in-between. There are reasons for every action a person takes, and if that person does something behind another person’s back, that’s nothing less than betrayal for Art. He has a hard time accepting any other kind of explanation. Humans are weird because they break the laws of reason time and again. That’s why Art can be equally happy, if not even more comfortable, being on his own. The only person his age he’s ever made an exception for is Paul.

Paul is different. Paul likes to play with language in particular. Paul is able to craft and bend realities with his words. Paul is not only master of all the shades of grey you can imagine, but he also fills his mind and his world with different colours. And not your normal kind of colours, like red, yellow and green. No, Paul’s world consists of shades of magenta, auburn, sunflower, mint, cobalt, cerulean, lavender, salmon and taupe. When Paul and Art get together and especially when they sing, their voices in perfect harmony, they create a delicious blend of colour that is so bright it will have to remain unnamed for all eternity. There is just no language in the world that can begin to explain how right it is, how unmeasurably picture perfect, that the two of them found each other and made each other laugh. It’s not surprising then, that for a while now, for Art the world has only consisted of Paul and the colourful traces Paul leaves behind in Art’s life.

How on earth, Art thinks, has he allowed himself to believe he had played an equally large part in Paul’s world than the particular shade of periwinkle? How did he temporarily trust in the notion that anything like this could ever last? He should have known this was too good to be true. He should have predicted this outcome. Nothing is ever this simple. Art knows that, and yet. Paul has hoodwinked him into becoming a different version of himself, someone who has turned his back on the security of good old, trustworthy black and white.

Different emotions must have been rolling back and forth under the folds of his eyelids - disbelief, hurt, anger, sadness – spilling out of him like he has shaken an open box of Good ‘n Plenty, because Paul takes a step back.

“Artie,” he begins, his tone cautious. Paul makes half a turn, looking around for a spot to put down the glasses of water he’s holding, eventually settling on the corner of the desk, Art standing only two feet away when the muted clunk of the glasses hits the wooden tabletop.

But Art is wild, his mind frantically looking for a strand to hold on to, a last piece of evidence that this is all a mistake, that it isn’t true. But he looks at the number on the label – 614 – and knows it’s no use fostering any glimmer of hope. He knows the number of their first single by heart. And 614 comes after 613. Numbers never lie. There’s just no going around that. Paul recorded this straight after he stood in that recording booth with Art, the two of them smiling at each other, giddy and elated about the chance they were given. And judging from the order of Big Records releases, True or False could have been recorded that same week, maybe even the next day.

“Is it you? Are you True Taylor?” Art asks, even though he knows the answer. He pushes the syllables past his teeth, seething, his tone of voice making Paul recoil. Art has heard the b-side of the single before, Paul playing it for him in his bedroom, and there is no way that Paul would just give the song away for someone else to sing. Paul recorded a single behind his back, months ago, and never said a word.

“I…it was Sid who asked. Artie, it didn’t…it wasn’t like that. Sid said that song made me sound like Elvis, and I—”

“Fuck Elvis,” Art curses. “You know what, Paul, fuck you too.”

Paul’s eyes widen, and it looks almost comical in Art’s frenzied state of distress. Art figures that between the diss on Elvis and the expletive Paul was just greeted by, Paul must also start to realize that this isn’t just another small argument they’re having. That it’s nothing like their everyday bickering. Art is willing himself not to start crying, though he very much wants to. He is hurt, very much so, in a visceral way that neither of them could have predicted.

“Artie, come on—,” Paul tries, but Art shakes his head.

“What about you telling me that we’d always sing together, huh? ‘You and me, Artie’,” Art singsongs, a harsh and stilted impression of Paul’s voice. “Or have you forgotten? How could you record that straight after we made our single? How long did it take for you to cast me aside, like a day? Is that all I am to you? Just another day in your life?”

“Art, no. I told you, it wasn’t like that. Sid asked me for more material, and most of it wasn’t ready. I sang that song for him, and he liked it. I guess he liked it enough to…and my dad also said…I was going to tell you but—”

“But what?”

“But I was afraid this is how you’d react.”

“Oh, is that supposed to make me feel better? Were you ever going to tell me? Was I going to find out about it when you had a solo hit, or what?”

Paul casts his eyes down. “Well, it wasn’t,” he says, “it didn’t do a thing on the—”

Art cuts him off, because he hates the victimized quality in Paul’s voice. “It did plenty.”

“Jesus, Art, would you just let me explain?” Paul takes two steps closer to Art.

“Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.”

Art just refuses to hear Paul’s excuses. Not today. The flash of pain, of anger that hit him as he read the names of the song writers on that single, was just so white-hot and sharp, branding a permanent mark on his body that says the opposite of what branding like that usually does. This is a dark and ugly stain reminding him that Paul can’t be dictated by anyone. That Paul will do what he wants, when he wants. Not that Art wishes to creatively impede Paul. Most of all, it burns into him the nagging truth that Paul isn’t his to keep. That Paul may leave him at any time Paul sees fit. And that scares Art more than he cares to admit.

Art wants to be alone so he can think. And he can’t do that when Paul is around, because in just a matter of two short weeks, Paul has taken permanent residence in Art’s brain. From the moment they first kissed under that tree in the park and, if he’s being honest, from way before, it’s been just a constant echo of Paul Paul Paul Paul in there, Paul invading his every thought from the moment he wakes up until the moment he goes to sleep, and even then.

Art knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s probably making too big a deal of this, but this whole thing pains him more than he could have anticipated. It’s not just the fact that Paul went behind his back to negotiate a single release with Sid – and his respect for that man is quickly dwindling too – but that it plays so horribly into Art’s insecurities. Art doesn’t have too many friends, and if Paul leaves him…if Paul goes off on his own, to college, or whatever, to have a musical career as a single act, without Art, well, where does that leave him? It’s just that Paul, when they first started hanging out together, was so funny and so opposite yet pressingly similar that Art didn’t think he even needed other friends. Maybe, he thinks, maybe it was a bit like meeting a soulmate. No wonder he went and fell in love with the damn guy. If Paul had just told him of these plans, if he’d just confided in him—”

Paul takes another step closer to Art and reaches for Art’s hand, intent on taking it. But Art pulls his hand back as if it has been burned, and moves away.

Paul sighs. “God, you’re killing me, Artie.” His hand flies up to his forehead, and he rubs his temple, his eyes closed. “Look,” he says, opening his eyes again and stretching his fingers out wide, gesturing to the air, “clearly I wasn’t thinking. But nothing happened with the song, okay? I couldn’t even do that right.”

“Paul, just save your excuses, okay? I…I need some air.” Art wants to go home so he can go and wallow in self-pity for a while.

But Paul is relentless. “Can’t we just drop it?”

Art balks. “This isn’t something that we can just drop like all of the other stunts you pull. God,” he says, exasperated. Paul just doesn’t understand how anxious Art is about everything, how this thing strips the small shred of self-confidence that he has steadily been building since they were on Bandstand away from him faster than he can rip a band-aid from his skin. This is a wound that’ll take some time healing.

Art forcefully throws the vinyl single he’s been clutching onto on the desk. It lands on the b-side, the title words jumping out at Art, mocking him. “You know, you really are a teenage fool, Paul,” and then he stalks past Paul through the door and stomps down the stairs.

Art makes it to the sidewalk in front of Paul’s driveway when he hears Paul coming after him.

“Art, wait,” Paul yells. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Art spins around. “With me?” Paul still doesn’t get it. Not only has he broken Art’s heart, but he’s not even deeming it necessary to apologize for upsetting him. “You just don’t get it, Paul, do you? You always think that you can do whatever you want and there will be no consequences? Well, you’re wrong, Paul. I’m—” Art’s shoulders sag and he deflates like a balloon five days after a birthday party. “I can’t do this anymore,” he finishes lamely. Art just wants to go. Why won’t Paul just let him leave?

“Can’t do what, exactly?” Paul wonders. “Why won’t you just let me explain what happened?”

Paul looks at Art, whose lips form a straight line and whose arms are crossed defensively in front of him, and then a thought seems to cross Paul’s mind that he seemingly had not yet considered. Colour drains from his face. “Is it about us? Are you…Are we still okay?”

When he meets only stony silence, Paul takes a step backwards, the realization of what Art isn’t saying hitting him. He rights himself quickly, as if he’s unwilling to be reduced to a crying puddle of woe right here on the street, in front of his house. “You know,” Paul says, “I’d have thought you’d be the bigger person about all this, willing to talk this through like a normal person, and not like a fucking pouting child. What are you, seven? Grow up!” Anger and hurt flash in his eyes.

Art is an injured animal. And like a cornered cat with nowhere else to go, he lashes out, scratching every brittle surface he can find. The words roll out of him before he can stop them. “What, you think you are the bigger person now? Don’t make me laugh, Paul. You’re insignificant. That single not even making the charts just proves it. You’re just too small to make it big. You can’t make the baseball team and you can’t become Elvis. I may not be the bigger person here, but whatever happens, I’ll always be the taller person. I’ll always be taller than you. It’s you who can’t grow up right.”

Art doesn’t know why he dragged Paul’s height into this. The words he utters don’t even make sense. Except he knows that that is an issue Paul is most insecure about. A comment on how Paul is small in stature can reduce him to tears and even beyond that, and Art knows that. And in the past, he has always tried to talk Paul out of depressing thoughts about any missing inches, because it doesn’t matter. Not to him anyway. Paul isn’t insignificant. On the contrary, Paul is everything. Paul is the fucking universe to him. Or was, whatever. But the words are out now. He can’t take them back. That particular button can no longer be unpushed. And for the smallest of moments, Art isn’t sure if he wants to take it back. Some part of him wants Paul to hurt as much as he does.

And Paul is definitely wounded. He recoils very hard, like Art has just flogged his face with a whip, and as if the lash leaves a gash so raw and deep, Paul’s face morphs into something unrecognizable, mangled and mauled.

“Right.” Paul’s voice comes out strangled, distorted. He seems to be working on a retort, but in the end decides against it, as if it’s just not worth it. “Thanks for that eloquent reminder,” is the only thing he says, before he turns on his heels and flees back into the house.

Art also huffs out a breath and stomps off in the direction of his house, stumbling on the pavement, blinded by the tears pooling in his eyes the whole way home.

++

How cruel summer is when you’re suffering from heartbreak. While the good weather and everyone else’s lives continue outside, Art hasn’t left his room in three days.

When he arrived back home after their horrible fight, he had thrown the front door closed and stomped up the stairs so hard, that his mother thought a bomb was exploding. On top of feeling like shit from dealing with Paul, Art also got a stern talking to from his dad. When his mom came in his room later, she found him sobbing in his bed, turned to the wall, the pillow beneath his head damp from all the tears. She sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked his back. Art had to tell her something, and so, between sobs, he divulged he had gotten into a fight with Paul, leaving most of the details out. Getting in arguments with his best friend was nothing out of the ordinary, and Art presumed his mom would think this would all blow over by the next day.

Except now it’s three days later, and the only time Rose hears her middle son stumbling through the hallway upstairs is when he needs to use the bathroom and when she calls him and his brothers down for dinner. The frown on her face as he retreats back into the safety of his room after eating, tells Art he only has a short time left before she comes back asking more questions.

All he does is lie in bed, with the curtains drawn. Art doesn’t feel like doing anything, like reading, or listening to a record, because he’ll hear or read a sentence and his mind will go back to the previous weeks spent with Paul, to how happy he was, to how Paul also seemed more joyful than ever, and to how it’s all come to a head three days ago. Art doesn’t know if he can ever muster up a laugh or a cheerful thought ever again. He does nothing but cry, tears spilling out of him beyond his control. It’s a wonder he hasn’t shrivelled up from all the fluids he’s lost.

There are enough songs about heartbreak that Art knows, but none of them can actually convey how much it aches. How unbelievably sad and powerless it makes him feel. No one has prepared him for how it feels like you’re breathing cold and dirty water and it drowns all the life out of you. And no one has told him that as much as he wants to hate the person who made him feel like this, he can’t. He just can’t hate Paul, despite the ill feelings he’s currently harbouring towards Paul. And that makes Art even more mad.

This is exactly what he was afraid of. That they would manage to muck things up beyond repair, and then what? He not only lost his first real love, but his best friend in the process, too. What was he even doing, trying to practice heartbreak by imagining Paul rejecting him? Reality is much, much worse than he imagined, suffocating him, eating him up from the inside.

On day four of his being holed up in his room, Art’s mother softly knocks on the door. Art has been expecting her to ask questions, but he hasn’t foreseen what comes out of her mouth as she opens the door just enough to stick her head through. “Paul is downstairs.” Art’s heart jumps up and down and a nervous energy trickles down his back. He cannot see Paul. It’s too soon. It’s also still very inconclusive whether Paul wants to talk to try and fix this or if Paul wants to yell at him for how mean Art was to him. Art is already deeply regretting what he said, but he also has his pride, and Paul will have to be the one to apologize first.

“Do you want me to send him up?” Art’s mother looks at him softly, her eyes betraying which way she wants this to go. But a panicked Art is not a reasonable Art.

“No,” Art whispers hoarsely, a gurgling sound coming out of him like the tears he cried are all firmly stuck in the back of his throat. A little louder, he follows with “I don’t…I don’t want to see him.”

“Arthur—”, his mother begins, but Art shakes his head. “Mom, please, don’t make me.”

Sighing, his mother retracts her head and goes back downstairs. She has left the door ajar, so Art listens as she says something to the visitor, followed by the sound of the front door closing. Art strides across his room and takes a peak through his window. Paul is dawdling in front of the house, his mouth set into a grim line. Art almost wills Paul to look up, but Paul doesn’t. Art is relieved he doesn’t, and this amalgamation of contradicting emotions will just have to stop, because it is rather exhausting.

By the time Art makes it back to his bed, his mother is coming back up the stairs. “I have to ask,” she says when she has made her way back in his room, “what on earth is going on between you two? You’ve never been at odds with each other for so long. What happened?”

Art doesn’t have a choice but to tell her about the single that Paul has cut without him and how betrayed it made him feel. He could fashion up a lie, but frankly, he doesn’t have the energy for that. Art’s mother just listens, stroking his hair. “He looked really sorry, if that’s any consolation,” his mom offers. “I think he had been crying, too. Perhaps you can find it in you to forgive him?” Art feels a pang of something in his stomach, but he doesn’t think he’s ready to forgive Paul for what he’s done just yet.

Still, the fact that Paul came by perhaps signifies that some of the friendship can be salvaged. But Art is going to have to start thinking about himself for once, too.

The next day, Art gets out of bed and sits at his desk, his eyes raking over the college applications that are tucked under a book near the edge of the tabletop. He needs to rethink his promise of attending the same college as Paul. If the friendship stays strained, it’s going to be rather awkward running into each other on campus. If they can even repair part of what they had going on before the Incident, it might still be fairly awkward. But Art also can’t fathom moving to the other side of the country and only seeing Paul at Christmas or Thanksgiving. He doesn’t know what to do.

On day six of his falling-out with Paul, Art’s mom asks him to stay behind just for a second after dinner. “I’ve been talking with your dad,” she says, and tries to flatten some of his hair. It doesn’t stay flat, but coils up again like a marshmallow that has just been pinched between two fingers. “Change into something a bit less wrinkled,” she urges him.

“Why?” Art is in no mood to go out.

“We’re going to the Simons,” Art’s dad says from behind the newspaper he’s reading at the dining room table.

“What? No!” Art says, vehemently. He begs and he pleads, but to no avail. Half an hour later he is seated in a corner of the Simons’ living room, Paul on the other side of the room, slumped in a chair, looking just as freaked out as Art feels. Their parents have all taken a seat around the table. Eddie must have been instructed to stay in his room, because he is nowhere to be seen. While Paul and Art are deliberately trying not to make eye contact, the atmosphere between both sets of parents seems friendly, but there is a tense note cutting through the air.

Art’s father clears his throat. “So, let’s cut to the chase then. Uh, I imagine we’ve all noticed that our sons are going through a rough patch. And while I’m sure both of them are at fault up to a certain level,” he says while glancing at Paul, whose head is so far down it’s almost in his lap, “I’d…we felt like we would like to discuss something with you to see if we can…remedy the situation.”

“And what do you think we could do to solve our kids’ squabble?” Louis, Paul’s father asks, a frown lining his features.

“A contract,” Jack continues. Art lifts his head up in surprise, just in time to see Paul’s eyes appear from under his hair, his eyebrows raised in equal wonder. “One that details that your son and mine shouldn’t be singing separately. That they can only record together.” What? While Art sinks down on his chair in horrible embarrassment, Paul’s features show some odd blend of relief and maybe even interest.

Paul’s father looks back at his son. “So that’s what you have been having an argument about?” Art wonders if Paul hasn’t told his parents anything about why they’d been at odds with each other for the past week.

When Louis turns to face Art’s parents again, his mouth is set in determination. “Jack, do you hear yourself? Do you think I’m stupid, or what?” Art winces. “Why would I do that?” Paul’s father continues. “Are you honestly expecting Paul to take care of your son for his whole life? Maybe Paul will do better on his own. Sorry to disappoint you, but I won’t sign anything like that!”

The silence that follows is ear-deafening. Unexpectedly, it’s Paul who breaks it by saying “Dad—” Art looks over at him, half in shock, and Paul seeks his gaze out in return, a small smile tugging on one side of his mouth. It’s the first time in six days that they’ve even looked at each other, Art realizes. Art’s stomach is doing a flip-floppy thing, and he has half a mind to return the smile, but before he can even start building up the courage to do so, Paul’s dad cuts in. “Paul, you stay out of this.” Paul goes back to lowering his head in defeat and Art screams inside.

“Right,” Art’s father, says, disgruntled. “I see. If that’s your take on it, I guess there’s nothing more to say then.” He touches his hand to his wife’s shoulder, getting up from the chair, and beckons his son to follow. Art reluctantly stands up, staring at his shoes.

The Garfunkels all pile out the door, Art’s father taking large steps to get away from this place as fast as possible, Art’s mother quickly padding behind him in heels, and finally Art closing the line, trudging behind his parents with a heavy heart. He feels a touch on his arm before he even registers the sound of someone coming after them.

“Artie?” Paul asks, his voice unsure. “Can we…Can I have a word with you? Just one second.” Art looks from Paul to his parents, who have stopped and turned to watch the exchange unfolding. “Please?” Paul says, and Art’s mother nods at them, gives Art a little nudge as if to say ‘go on then, talk to each other, you two idiots’. She grabs Art’s father’s arm and steers him back in the direction of their house.

Art turns back to face Paul, who is shuffling his feet on the pavement, a rare display of nervousness lining his features. Art’s arm tingles where Paul touched it. He lets out a breath he’s been holding. “Well?” he dares to ask, when Paul isn’t exactly forthcoming with more words. Art needs Paul to start this conversation, because he doesn’t have the guts to. He is not even sure if he wants to be having this talk at all, at this time. He also doesn’t want to be the first to apologize either, if that is indeed what Paul’s intention is.

“Thank you,” Paul says instead, and Art is a bit taken aback, because of all the possible ways to start the first conversation after having the fight they’ve been having, gratitude is not what he imagined Paul to express.

“For what?”

“When your parents called mine, I thought they knew. I figured they’d come down here to uh…to berate me for defiling you, or something.”

“Wait, you thought I had told them? About us?” Us. It still feels reasonably normal to say that word about the two of them, though Art thinks he detects a slightly bitter aftertaste that has only recently materialized.

“I…Well, you obviously told them about our fight.”

“That’s because my mother can’t stop asking questions. I had to tell her something.”

“So you told her the truth. It’s only a small jump to another piece of information that is also the truth.”

“Are you crazy, Paul? You and I, we’re…I’d never tell anyone if we hadn’t discussed that we wanted to share with someone. It’s still our own private world. I wouldn’t dare to—”

Hope and affection shine so brilliantly behind the gleam in Paul’s eyes that Art has to stop talking, or he will become a stuttering, flailing tangle of blushing cheeks and swooning eyes. Instead he does this thing where he scratches the back of his head when he’s embarrassed. Art is still so desperately gone for Paul, even though he has tried to fight it for just about a week. But he can’t stop loving Paul any more than he can will his heart to stop beating at any given time. And Paul, thankfully, seems to be on the same page, despite the rancorous resentments they threw at each other. There might still be hope for them yet. They’re just both too stubborn to say it out loud.

“Anyway,” Paul finally breaks the awkward tension between them, “there’s something else.” He looks carefully up at Art, and Art starts bracing himself for what’s to follow.

“Sid said we need to come down to the studio to record the third single.” It comes out as a rushed somersault of words, as if Paul wasn’t looking forward to articulate them, which, as it happens, he probably didn’t.

At the mention of Sid’s name, Art takes in a deep breath, his teeth grinding together and his tongue pushed stiffly to the back of his upper incisors. He moves his gaze down to the ground and looks at a plant trying to grow through the cracks in the pavement. “Oh.”

After ‘Hey Schoolgirl’ took off, they did do another single together, that one failing to make a dent in the charts. But their contract with Big records stipulated they’d record at least three singles, and apparently now it is time for Sid to collect.

“I suppose that’s a contract we can’t get out of,” Art says, more a statement than a question.

“Do you not want to do it?” Paul asks, rather unenthusiastically. 

“No, I’ll do it,” Art says, trying to sound defiant. “I’ll see it through to the end. That’s what you do, isn’t it? With contracts. You have to honour them. And you can’t give up on them.” He raises his eyes to meet Paul’s when he voices that last sentence. “Not easily, anyway.”

“And what about the fine print? What if you don’t agree with some of it?” Paul wonders out loud.

“You take all of the fine print when you sign off on the contract, Paul.”

“But you have to be able to read the fine print first, huh?”

“Yes, that would be strongly advised.”

“Noted.”

Somehow, Art doesn’t think that neither Paul nor him are still talking about contracts.

Art is back in his room before he realizes Paul still hasn’t apologized. But neither has he.

++

Paul gave him a date and time for the recording of their next single at Big Records for three days later. Art leaves his house two hours earlier than the agreed meet-up time at Big, but now he’s wavering between just going down into Manhattan on his own or meeting up with Paul again to take the subway ride together. If everything was normal between them, there would be no doubt about it; they’d be entertaining each other on the ride into the city, but now there’s this weird limbo they’re operating in.

He awkwardly lingers in front of his house, trying to make up his mind, then walks in the direction of the subway stop, resolutely deciding he’ll buy himself a bit more time to prepare for seeing Paul again. Except after five steps, he turns back, sighing, walking in the direction of Paul’s house anyway.

Eddie, who is riding his bike in his street, informs him that Paul has already left a while ago. Art starts to contemplate how tiring it is not being able to decide whether to be relieved or disappointed.

After his walk through the park and after he descends the steps to the subway station, Art spots the guitar case first. Then his stomach swoops and his heart rate speeds up. Then he sees the back of Paul’s head as Paul is buying a ticket. Once again Art is left with a choice that he needs to make in seconds flat: is he going to stay behind for a bit and take the next train, or is he going to make his presence known and ride together with Paul? When did things become so complicated? Is he really thinking about hiding from his best friend, even though he’s not sure the friendship survived? Can they ever be normal again in each other’s presence, or is it always going to be like this?

Shaking his head in mental vexation at this whole absurdity, he takes a few steps closer to Paul, who has already turned and is making his way towards the exit for the train tracks. “Hey,’ Art says stupidly, and Paul snaps his head so quickly in his direction that Art almost winces in Paul’s place.

“You’re here,” Paul answers, a kind of astonishment in his words that sounds to Art as if Paul thought Art wouldn’t follow through after all on what they discussed a few days prior.

“Yeah, I told you I’d do it, didn’t I?” Art says quickly, a hint of touchiness audible as the words come out of his mouth.

“No, that’s not what I…I went to your house, but you’d already left,” Paul says defensively. There is a tiny flash of hurt appearing on Paul’s face; it’s gone in an instant, but Art knows it all too well. You left without me.

“Oh,” Art begins, the need to reassure Paul somehow overwhelming him. “I guess we must have just missed each other, because I went to yours and Eddie told me the same thing.”

Paul doesn’t say anything, but the way Paul’s face just kind of brightens after that, leaves Art rather pleased with himself.

With a “come on, we need to get going,” Paul breaks Art out of his reverie. Art quickly buys a ticket and trots after Paul down the stairs, where a train is just arriving on the track.

They don’t talk much during the ride downtown, but this time it’s not really one of those comfortable silences between two old friends. Paul keeps fussing with the guitar case between his legs, and Art doesn’t know how to keep his hands from moving either, anxious energy coursing through them, so in the end he just folds them in his lap and tries to keep them as still as possible.

When Art quickly glances at Paul between subway stops, Paul has his eyes closed. Art doesn’t know if he deliberately closed them and is contemplating stuff, maybe the enduring discomfort between them, or if he has dozed off. Whatever the reason, Art cannot stop his gaze from tracing the lines from Paul’s forehead to his eyebrows. Whereas Art’s eyebrows are straighter, Paul’s are perfectly curved and darker and they form the perfect companions to Paul’s round eyes. Paul’s eyelashes are shorter than his own, but they fit with the shape of Paul’s eyes, and when Paul is outside and the light hits his lashes just right, they’ll leave a shadow on his sunkissed cheekbones that Art has definitely caressed before. Paul in profile is going to be the death of him. Paul has the perfect little straight nose, and Art hasn’t even begun to contemplate Paul’s lips, which are full and pink and so good at doing…things.

The train stops in a station and Paul slowly opens his eyes, leaving enough time for Art to avert his gaze as if he hasn’t just spent the past fifteen minutes staring at the boy next to him. The need to reach out and touch Paul is just tremendous. Not necessarily Paul’s face which Art has just been dissecting, but just anywhere. Just to touch Paul’s warm skin, to feel Paul’s heart beating beneath his hand. Art wills his hands to stay exactly where they are. But when the spot next to him gets occupied as someone gets on the train at this stop, Art is not completely unhappy about having to scoot a few inches closer to Paul, their upper arms touching whenever the train makes a sudden movement, kind of throwing them against each other. Paul’s thigh burns hotly against his through his pants.

Art is so in love. Still. Despite his angry feelings. He is so screwed. A slightly uncomfortable blush creeps up his cheeks. If Paul notices anything when they exit the station and emerge in the daylight, he doesn’t say anything. The Empire State Building stands tall in the distance, and Art wishes he was up there, so that the wind could blow the rosy tinge on his face away.

It’s more than a bit awkward when they get to the studio and Paul keeps on glancing at Art every two minutes, possibly terrified that Art is going to lose his temper and explode at Sid, who, thankfully, is entirely oblivious about any weird vibes between Tom and Jerry and about any hostile feelings harboured against himself. But Art keeps politely calm; he just hardly acknowledges Sid, ignores him, really.

Because Art and Paul haven’t rehearsed in a while, it takes a bit longer than usual to record the single. They need more takes than they both ever imagined they would require, being usually so attuned to each other’s singing, and that is really sobering for Art. He imagines it is the same for Paul, whose face remains stoically unmoved but Art thinks he can correctly diagnose the flickers of doubt and other less happy emotions in Paul’s eyes.

Their unhappiness with how the recording session went blends into the train ride back to Queens, and Art just doesn’t have the energy anymore to try and dispel the vibe of unspoken weirdness between them when they reach the fork in the road where they’re both going their separate ways to reach their own streets.

Paul hesitates but doesn’t say anything, and Art realises the apology he’s been waiting for may never come, and that starts to irk him. And so he lets Paul go home, without any clear understanding between them of when – or even if – they’ll see each other again. Without knowing where they stand and what they are…if they’re even still friends, or more, or nothing at all. Sadness and frustration creep up on him once more, like bugs moving just below the surface of his skin. They itch and scratch, determined to unearth every miserable thought he has ever had. Tears prickle in his eyes, blinding him all over again as he walks home, alone.

July turns into August, and summer has been two weeks of bliss and two weeks of pure misery so far. It’s definitely not how Art intended to spend his last summer break before college.

++

Art makes lists. It’s what he does, and he loves it. For the past two days, he has methodically scribbled down some of his options, pros and cons as it were.

There are a few things he can do to resolve this rather unpleasant indeterminate state he has found himself in, a few decisions he’ll have to make. He can imagine a future that still involves a Paul in it, or he can try and leave it all behind and build a new life in college, a new future with people he has yet to meet. He can go along with Paul’s dream of ending up in the music business, or he can find his own place in society, try to make a name for himself in a profession he can excel in. He can make it really easy for himself, marry a girl and settle down with her, raise a family, or he can stop going the easy way in life and be prepared to fight for what he believes in, for who he is and for those he loves. He can stay in New York or he can go out of state. He can live with a bruised heart or die incomplete. He can choose to love or choose to hate.

In the end, it’s surprisingly easy to come to a conclusion of which path he wants to walk on. When it comes to Paul Simon, there is but one possible outcome after all.

A hard protrusion on the tree bark is digging into his back, but Art doesn’t want to get up and move just yet. The decision is made, and he’s as certain of it as his inability to deny the Pythagorean theorem, but carrying it out is another matter. He needed some time to think, to devise a plan on how to speak to Paul about it. Some of it may not be what Paul wants to hear.

Just as he thinks he finally has a script of how to proceed - which, he thinks, will probably all go to hell anyway as soon as he lays eyes on Paul, but it’s worth a try - and he places his hands on the ground in a move to get up, he sees a figure walking toward him. Art feels instantly weak in the knees and he sits back down.

“Hey,” Paul says when he’s within earshot. He’s holding what looks like something wrapped in parchment paper in his hands. He looks down at Art on the ground, unconvinced of the best way of how to carry on now that he has located Art.

“Come, sit,” Art says, patting the grass in front of him, and he’s equally surprised by the softness in his own voice as Paul is. Paul wavers a moment longer, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but eventually plonks down a few feet away in front of Art, crossing his legs.

“I was just about to go to your house,” Art admits. He can’t tear his gaze away from Paul, who looks up at him, blinking against the sunlight. “I just came from yours,” Paul chuckles. “Your mom said you were taking a walk.”

Art feels a warm shiver trickle down from his neck to the bottom of his spine. “We have got to stop going to each other’s houses at the same time and somehow miss each other,” he replies, slightly amused.

“Good thing I found you here.” Paul shoots him a careful smile.

“Yeah, how did you find me here?” The area is well secluded, and Art hasn’t seen anyone pass by since he arrived here.

Paul shrugs. “Figured I’d take my chances. Made a good guess, didn’t I?” When Art doesn’t immediately react, he adds: “You’re the sentimental type, Artie. I know you. And this is the tree where we first…” Paul doesn’t dare finish his sentence.

“Oh. Yeah,” Art eventually concedes.

When they both stop talking and the only thing that can be heard is the sound of the breeze and a bird chirping loudly in one of the branches above their heads, Art decides it’s time to start bringing his script into play.

“Listen, Paul—,” he begins.

“—so sorry,” Paul finishes, at the same time.

They both stare at each other. And then they both start speaking simultaneously again. “I shouldn’t have said—” “I don’t know how to—”

Art huffs out a breath and Paul is the first one to start grinning. “You go first,” he gestures at Art. “No, go ahead,” Art replies. “No, no, it’s fine,” Paul says, the look in his eyes almost breaking Art’s resolve. Almost.

“Paul,” Art says, the single syllable of Paul’s name unmistakably conveying Art’s absolute need for Paul to go first and even carrying a bit of the exasperation mixed with fondness for Paul that he’ll never be able to shake as long as he lives.

Paul starts laughing, a quiet, compact noise rolling from his lips that is still able to shake Art to his core. Art kind of wants to kiss the smile off of Paul’s face.

“Are we going to fight about this, then?” Paul grins.

“I’m tired of fighting,” Art says dryly.

The grin on Paul’s face fades instantly. “Yeah,” he says, sighing, and it’s the most meaningful sound in the whole world. “Okay, I’ll start,” he yields. “I was coming to tell you this anyway.”

Art’s heart starts doing a few somersaults in his ribcage, because he realizes they may not be out of the woods yet. He waits for Paul to continue.

“So, I was doing some thinking. And I want you to know, I would have signed that contract.”

Art frowns, and despite his wish for Paul to own up to his mistakes first, he can’t help but ask: “What contract?”

“The one your dad came to negotiate. I still would. I won’t sing another song without you. I need your voice with mine, Art. I need—”

“But that’s not what this is about,” Art interrupts, a little bit worked up because Paul still does not seem to get it.

“I know –”

“I wasn’t mad because you sang without me.”

“I know.”

“No, wait, maybe I have to tell you something first,” Art says urgently. Paul nods to let Art know he can continue.

“I may have written a song,” Art says, and then hesitates.

“Okay,” Paul says, waiting for Art to go on.

“But it’s not Tom and Jerry material. I…I don’t know if it’s any good, but maybe, one day, I want to record it. On my own.” Art looks up to assess Paul’s reaction, but Paul keeps still, listening. “So, I don’t want you to think you can never record a song on your own, but—”

“But you want me to tell you about it if I do?” Paul offers.

“Yeah,” Art squeezes out, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Paul whispers back, and Art has to keep his eyes from watering. “It’s just that Sid was making me crazy with talk about how I sounded like Elvis. How I was going to be the next Elvis. How he would make sure about that. And when I told my dad, and he kind of agreed, can you imagine…there was nothing else I could think about, I guess,” Paul resumes, in a normal voice. “But turns out no one is waiting for a second Elvis,” Paul finishes, a wry smile on his lips. “I guess I really am a teenage fool, huh?”

Just when Art opens his mouth to reply, Paul holds up a hand. “There was something else I realized, as soon as you stormed out, that day.”

Art would like to not be reminded of that evening too often, because it definitely wasn’t one of his finer moments. Still, he waits for Paul to complete his train of thought.

“I don’t want to be Elvis if that means you’re not with me.”

Art’s eyes go wide and his heart grows three sizes. He has to swallow back tears, his nostrils flaring just so he can breathe enough air in to keep the waterworks at bay. For Paul to say that anything is more important to him than Elvis, is huge. And Art is at the receiving end of it. This feels like the most significant love declaration he will ever get.

“Paul, I’m…so incredibly sorry about what I said,” Art commences. “It couldn’t be further from the truth. I was hurt and I got so mean I even shocked myself. You’re not insignificant. You mean the world to me.” And then, as much indignance as he can possibly pour in his words, “everyone is crazy to not want to recognize your talent. I would have been your biggest fan, had you been the second Elvis. Heck, I am your biggest fan even though you’re Paul.” Art sheepishly looks at Paul, who is struggling to keep a straight face, but it’s unclear if it’s from a smile or tears threatening to spill. 

Paul flings himself into Art’s arms before Art can say another word, his arms so tight around Art’s neck that death by choking suddenly becomes a real possibility, but Art couldn’t care less. He hugs Paul back just as fiercely; they are squishing each other’s bodies like their lives really depend on it. Paul’s back starts shaking under Art’s hands (tears, then) and Art cannot stop his own tears from leaking out of his eyes, dripping down his cheeks and onto the cotton of Paul’s t-shirt on top of Paul’s shoulder. 

“I missed you so much,” Paul mumbles in Art’s neck between sobs. Art can’t speak from the litany of emotions lodged firmly in his chest; he is blown away by the intensity of what he can feel for one person. Art will always remember that he was sixteen years old when he knew that whatever happened, Paul was always going to be the most important person in his life. And it was foolish to even consider for a second that they could be anything less than made for each other, anything other than two halves of one whole; two opposites finding common ground and deciding to share life’s burdens. 

Art takes Paul by the shoulders and leans back, and, after looking around if there aren’t any onlookers nearby, he leans back in and kisses Paul. It’s not one of those kisses where it’s all about devouring each other until all that’s left is a bleeding heart and the distant memory that other people exist, but the pressure between their lips is undemanding, soft and forgiving. Paul’s hands frame both sides of Art’s face, and it’s Paul who takes the kiss to a more desperate level, trailing salty kisses all over Art’s mouth, his chin, his cheeks, his temples and his neck. Paul doesn’t execute any particular order in his attempt to put his lips on Art’s entire face; he just touches every inch of skin he can find. Art wants to grow roots and never move from this spot.

When Paul shifts even closer, causing the back of Art’s head to fall against the tree trunk, a crinkling sound from under Paul’s legs reaches their ears. “Oh, shit,” Paul says, letting go of Art’s face and removing his knee from the package he was carrying earlier, “I forgot about that.”

“What is it?” Art asks, curious.

Paul wipes the remnants of tears away from his face and laughs quietly as he hands the paper-wrapped object to Art. “Don’t laugh at me. I brought a peace offering. I had my mom make them.”

Art peels back the corners from the parchment paper and the smell hits his nostrils before he can see what’s inside. He also flashes a bright grin at Paul. “You didn’t.”

Paul keeps on sniggering. “I figured if all else failed, those would make you reconsider.”

“Would they now?” Art asks, reaching his hand inside.

“Your mind would just slip right back to those memories,” Paul says, the emphasis on the one word, one eyebrow raised mischievously. “I mean wouldn’t your thoughts just slide back to –”

“Paul, I swear—” Art says, but he makes it clear in his tone of voice that it’s all in good fun. “Is this your way of trying to flirt with me?”

Paul takes his chin between his index finger and his thumb, trying to look like he’s contemplating a particularly hard math problem but failing miserably, the look in his eyes too happy to mistake for something else. “Is it working?” he asks Art.

“It might,” Art answers, before he pops a piece of one of the coconut macaroons in his mouth. “But don’t push your luck,” he adds with a smile.

“About pushing—,” Paul begins, and Art can only roll his eyes in faked annoyance.

“Shut up, Paul.”

Paul’s way of shutting up is by kissing Art again, and Art can definitely get behind that particular practice.

++

When they’re walking on the path to the exit of the park, Art’s head pleasantly buzzing from being close to Paul again, Paul does most of the talking.

“I am thinking of buying a car, you know, with the ‘Hey Schoolgirl’ money.” Paul talks animatedly, with lots of hand gestures. “I’ll be able to come pick you up and we can drive to campus together.”

And just like that, Art feels as if someone just doused him with a bucket of ice water. This is why he should have followed his script, he thinks, because now he finds himself in this situation where he thought they were back to normal but there still is this big elephant in the room. For a split second, Art considers just not opening his mouth and letting Paul go on rambling about cars. However, if he’s learned anything from the past few weeks is that keeping things from each other can backfire really quickly, so in the end he just has to man up and say something.

He glances at Paul, walking next to him, and braces himself for the backlash. “I’m…I’m not going to Queens College, Paul,” he says.

As much as he has tried to soften the blow with the way he let that sentence roll off his tongue gently, as expected, Paul’s steps falter, he stays behind and eventually just stops walking altogether. Art turns back to look at Paul, who is trying to look as if it’s nothing, as if it doesn’t deter him, but Art could recognize the crestfallen expression on Paul’s face with his eyes closed.

“Paul,” Art begins, cautiously, “we weren’t going to be in each other’s classes anyway.” Art wants to continue, explaining how he reached his decision, but Paul looks even more broken-hearted by now, so Art can only take a few steps back until he’s right in front of Paul. He wants to take his friend’s hand, but doesn’t dare to do so in public. “I’m staying in New York,” Art reassures Paul. “I’m not moving across the country, don’t worry,” he says, and is glad to see that Paul’s somber look loses at least some of its darkest edges.

“Then where are you going?” Paul asks.

“Columbia.”

“Is this retaliation for True Taylor?” Paul asks, a sharpness that makes them both wince penetrating his words.

Art sighs. “This isn’t retaliation for anything. Paul, I’m not doing this to take revenge on you. It’s something that I need to do for myself. I admit that I thought a lot about it in the past few weeks, but I think I may have come to the same conclusion even if…you know…that hadn’t happened.” If Art never hears the name True Taylor again, it’s still too soon. Paul swallows visibly, a guilty shadow flickering behind his eyes.

“Besides, they don’t offer at Queens what I decided to study,” Art continues. “I don’t want to start resenting you if I go to your college and end up getting a diploma I didn’t want in the first place.”

“What do you mean? I thought you were going to major in math? You’ve been wanting to study mathematics since forever.”

“I was, at first, but I think I’m going to try my hands at architecture. It’s, I mean, it has this blend of extreme preciseness but also creativity, you know?” Art says, his gestures growing more and more excited as he’s telling his best friend about his future plans. “It’s…the perfect mix of…uh…well—” Paul’s eyebrows shoot up. “It reminds me of you and me.” Art finishes, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Wait, what?” Paul’s earlier sadness has been replaced by slight confusion.

“Well yeah,” Art replies, while curling a finger around a lock of hair that is waiting to form a curl on his head. “I’m the precise one and you’re the creative one, you see.”

At that, Paul’s face finally breaks into a smile. “Artie, you are crazy.” Paul starts walking again. “You’re absolutely nuts.”

‘About you’, Art thinks, without saying it out loud, watching Paul with absolute fondness. Art’s heart rate comes down now that Paul doesn’t appear to have the inclination to run from him in the opposite direction.

“Don’t think for a minute I’m driving you to Columbia,” Paul says, poking Art’s arm with his finger, to which Art, being the ticklish type, jumps to the side, giggling and flinching at the same time.

“I was thinking that maybe you can drive down to Harlem to visit me, though.”

“You’re not going to live here anymore? Am I even still going to see you?” Paul ponders, frowning. There’s a bit of desperation audible, and Art isn’t entirely adverse to hearing it. He is also going to miss Paul loads when they’ll no longer attend the same school.

“I’ll be here in the weekends, sure. But I’ll probably live in the dorm during the week. But think about how nice it’ll be when we see each other again after spending some time apart.”

“I’d rather not be missing you at all, actually,” Paul says. “Already did too much of that lately.”

Art’s smile is wide when he adds with a playful note: “You can come visit me in my dorm. No parents and brothers there.” The implications of his statement couldn’t be clearer.

“You’ll have a roommate.”

“Fuck my roommate.”

“Artie, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“That’s not what I—,” Art begins, but he stops when he feels Paul shaking with laughter next to him. He hits Paul in the side, unable to stop grinning. “You fool.”

“That I am,” Paul says, “for you, always.”

By the time Art is able to tear his gaze away from Paul’s mouth, which he desperately wants to kiss, they’ve arrived at Art’s house, and this is where the déjà vu hits him. Once more he knows he doesn’t really have to ask, but he does it anyway. “Want to come up?” Art asks as he’s motioning his head in the direction of the front door. Paul is already nodding before Art even finishes speaking.

Just like last time four weeks prior, Art latches onto Paul’s wrist and almost drags him up the stairs. Except this time, at the top of the staircase, they nearly bump into Art’s mother who is exiting the bathroom.

If she is surprised to see Paul’s head popping up behind her son’s back, she doesn’t really show it. “Glad to see you two back together again,” she says, and winks at the both of them. Art has a hard time keeping the most lovesick look from his face while he thinks his mom doesn’t even half know how right she is, and Paul, his hand still half wedged in Art’s behind Art’s back, not visible to Art’s mom, squeezes Art’s fingers and blinks up innocently at Rose when he says: “Can’t live without him, Mrs. G.” Art nearly loses it. Paul will definitely get them into trouble one day.

Art’s mother goes back downstairs, and Paul and Art pile into Art’s room, giggling, lightheaded from affection for each other. “Kiss me, you fool,” Paul begs, crowding back into Art’s space, the key again digging into Art’s back, just like the first time they were up here doing this.

“I thought we just established you are the fool in this relationship,” Art laughs, fascinated by Paul rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Paul grins. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

Art meets him halfway. Paul tastes like coconuts. The world starts spinning again. Stars will shine brighter. Birds sing louder, dandelions bloom more yellow. And Art just started loving summer again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I love you half as much  
> As I did before?  
> Darling I could hardly love you more  
> (Paul McCartney - [This Loving Game](https://youtu.be/xw768GqoZD8))
> 
> I had to deviate from canon a bit (and did it gladly, because we all know how it turned out in real life sob sob sob) to bring you the happy ending because I am the biggest sap and I just want them to love each other. Hope you like it. 
> 
> And now it's time to take a little fic break, because I've been constantly writing for the past three months. Soon things will get busy again at work and I want some time to _read_ some books (and fic). However, knowing myself, I may post the occasional small fic now and then. :)


End file.
